If These Walls Could Talk
by i-prefer-the-term-antihero
Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too. The Netflix series, and Adrian's childhood, told from the perspective of the castle. (Incredible cover art by junkisakuraba on instagram and deviant art!)
1. Lisa

_"My mother's name was Lisa, and she was mortal…She actually showed up at his front door. She found the castle and banged the door with the pommel of her knife…She was remarkable. She beat on the door until my father let her in, and then demanded he teach her how to be a doctor."_

* * *

_"Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?"_

The castle doesn't like children.

Well, maybe that's too strong to say. It simply isn't the place for them. Its existence is a signpost: _leave me alone_. It is not used to having company—much less a family—inside it, nor is it ready to welcome for a crying, puking, giggling thing into the world. It does not intend to be a cozy place to coddle him into adulthood.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun's blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn't like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. 'Don't play with that' would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—no snug space to curl up in, on a winter's day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

There are certain people who were seemingly born as they are; they never owned toys, never crawled on the floor, never walked with clumsy steps—their footfalls were always this calculated count—never burped on their mother's nice shirts, and surely never had anything so dull as a childhood. They were always just…here, on the world. There was no innocence, and no losing it. So it was with Dracula.

The very thought of Dracula ever owning toys, even in some nice cottage far away from here, with a doting mother and an absent father, with a funny last name like Cronqvist, defied sense to the castle. So no, no toys here, nor any simple charts for learning; the books divulged their secrets to more mature minds. Just blood and books, gold and gears, forgotten magic means, mirrors that reflect nothing, and a pile of prayers to a good God they used to justify their ungood, and ungodly deeds.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It's not a quaint place lovers look on and think _we'll raise our kids here someday_.

Its master isn't the ideal father either—after all, the castle only reflected its king. Its master knows only of blood and nails, fangs and wails, words too big for a child's mouth, and worlds too dark for a child's heart.

Can he be soft? Can he be gentle? Can he keep those claws, which have ripped out better men's hearts, from piercing a child's—_his_ child's…how could one who killed so many have a child?—skin? He knows many spells, but is there one that can turn those screams into laughter?

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

Many women have walked the castle's halls: shivering, shrieking damsels at his feet; cold and calculating queens; fragile bodies on the floor, that he broke with the same regard a child does a vase that matters to someone else.

Those ordinary people who do come often have pitchforks in their mouths, and fiery words in their closed fists. Curses stacked on the end of stakes, banging like the castle is the church bell signifying their own funerals.

It is for this reason that the castle does not like outsiders, does not open its doors easily. But it cannot _deny_ anyone entry. Unlike the humans' doors, which find his master guilty until proven innocent.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

They came when the flowers were closed, when only the most eerie and vicious of animals played with the skins of their prey, and the moon waxed the world in cold, drunk shine. The sun could not watch them, could not show their blood-struck hands in their full glory.

She came at sunset. When the sun still glazed her deeds in sanguine auburn, but was just deciding to turn its gaze and let the kids have their fun. Not quite day, when the sun would kill things like Dracula, but not quite night, when the hours are named after witches, and lust is strongest—be it for the body, or the blood within it. Somewhere in between death and life, violence and peace.

This woman came with a knife in her hand, yes. But a knife, at least, was not a sword. It was not a pitchfork, a spear, a whip, or a stake; all weapons that signify, if the fight wasn't there, you were bringing it with you. Not a war-starved weapon, pointing with mal-in—and -con—tent towards the castle doors and all the things inside it. Not a thirsty thing. Something that by default faced the other direction. Something that can start a fight if it wants to, but doesn't crave it.

The golden woman came at sunset, with a knife in her hand, and looked upon this thing, this castle that others called 'ugly', and 'monstrous,' and 'grotesque,' looked upon it with awe, and gasped in wonder.

She knocked. She didn't bang her fists upon the stone, didn't ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn't have any other choice.

The doors—foreboding, menacing, and all the other spooky -ings one can think of—opened to a world strewn in light; the demon's castle looked brighter, more beautiful, more alive, than half the churches she'd been to.

Her footsteps were gentle against the castle's floors. Not a slow, forced gentleness, but also not a piercing, purposeful march. There was no apprehension to her footsteps; her feet carried her as if anxious to take her to as many rooms as they could.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they're alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard; stories, but not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses; the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn't made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death. Not all the stories make humans want to run at the doors with garlic and arrows, or else stay far away.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others; stories that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is _life_ here.

And, in exchange for proof that these life-stories true, Dracula asked for a trade, a trade that would prove the _other_ stories true too. He gave up the killing a while ago—(the castle has been in one place a very long time)—but he was still not used to giving for free, and definitely not used to getting for free. Vampires trade in blood and names, not diamonds and declarations. Vampires trade in things they can swallow. This castle, too, had been a gaping hole set to swallow the world and everything that entered. Never once had it given.

And she dared to say, that this place, its master, should learn to give, when the humans have done nothing but take from them—or try their best to. He ought to be the one to invite her in, to ask what she would like, to dispense pleasant words and kind actions, when the humans forgot they invented hospitality, and showed no invitation for him to even enter their homes.  
But she didn't come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

She was used to being cheated. Dracula and his castle were too. But that was not why she was there. She was not there for cheap tricks, or death. She wanted something real. A little bit of the life the castle has to offer.

Her defiance wasn't that of a terrified citizen, or angry queen, either; rather the calm resolve of someone who is asking for something they know in their heart is good, and knows they will get it. The kind of person who believes there is good in everyone, and that this good will ultimately always win, and who won't leave until they convince this good to show its face.

The castle has watched countless men and women cower at foot of count Dracula. Some, do have a measure of god-sanctioned defiance; they come with whips and scourges to defeat him. The castle and the king are bound together in their resolve against them.

Except one. Except this woman, with her mouth full of healing salve and her hands full of curiosity. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

'Devoid of life' was an accurate portrayal of the castle. Bats flying out of blackness is a good description of a cave, and caves don't usually come with the brochure 'teeming with life', or 'great place to take your kids!'. The castle had a soul-sucking quality to it; those who entered often found themselves leaving less alive than they arrived. It took after its vampire master. Those who didn't actually lose their lives within its walls, often remarked upon leaving that the flowers bloomed brighter, the birds sang louder, the grass was greener, and that they missed the sunlight.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don't need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

_"Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?"_

Castlevania was alive once. Once Dracula set the pumps, and its heart began to beat. He turned the gears, and its lungs inhaled. He forged the lightning, and it began to think. Once the books, full of unknown knowledge, jumped off the shelves to get the vampire king's attention. He filled the bottles and beakers, and they bubbled, as if laughing at a joke only they shared.

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time; the gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle _ached_ before she came.

And Dracula, alone in the halls, picking up books and putting them down again without so much as a polite glance through them, because he read them all before. Dracula looking into fractured mirrors that could take him anywhere, but deciding there wasn't anywhere he wanted to go. Dracula, looking into old mirrors that don't reflect him—like there was never anything to reflect, nothing alive here to begin with, and there isn't a master for this castle after all. Nothing but a grave. Dracula sitting alone in his study, staring into the fire. No one to talk to. No sound but flipping pages and crackling fires—nothing alive. Alive but dead. This castle. Its master. Undead is the proper term.

The other women who came through here reflected the castle, or else the castle took the life out of them the moment they entered. Queens with malice-stained past, and cracked, icy future in their eyes. Just as cold as the walls. Subjects, humans throwing gruesome insults, silky flattery, or fluttering pleas at his feet. Just as empty as the mirrors.

Only one refused the castle's bite. Only one walked in looking for life, rather than death. _Looking_ for a thing no one thought existed here. Already presumed dead. Put six feet beneath the ground. But maybe it was here all along; maybe the light hid in the castle's corners while the dark came out to play, and she just had to coax it out of its hiding places. Maybe the bell was ringing all this time, she was the only one who came close enough to hear it; the only one who came to put flowers on the grave.

Maybe when she felt the machinery pumping she knew the rhythm was a heartbeat. Maybe when she heard the gears clanking she knew it was the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Maybe when she saw the lightning, she wondered what it was thinking. Maybe she looked at these books, these instruments, and saw what the vampire king saw once; something alive. They weren't dead yet—un- or otherwise. Just sick, and in need of proper treatment. She was a doctor after all. Maybe her first subject was the very books she learned from.

Lisa, who looked at this blotch on the sky, with Death in its towers, and darkness splattered on its walls, and thought _that's where I'll learn to heal people_. Lisa, who gaped in amazement at the beast of a building. Lisa, who didn't shudder upon entering. Lisa, who didn't scream when its master touched her, but turned to him with calm resolve, and told him she'd teach him to be more human. Lisa, who's life eclipsed the undeath in this place.

And there _was_ a trade that occurred that day. For Dracula's immortal knowledge, Lisa would teach him how to live a mortal life. To travel the world as a man, to walks as a man, to eat and drink, laugh and cry, as a man. Immortality for mortality. They gave each other the world, as so many lovers promise to do. Vlad would make her immortal, and Lisa would make him mortal, with no exchange blood.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to _create_ life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for _her_. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn't the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula is apprehensive as well, for the castle and he are used to each other, they take after each other, because the cold, and the dark, and the death, and the _alone_ does something to you after a while; you start talking to the walls. After the cold queens and quaking colleens leave, or leave their bloodstains the floor. After the beasts and their silver-stained bullets turn back into righteous men in the sun. After he simply outlives everyone else. When all the living things hate, fear, or else betray you, when all the living things can die, and you, who are undead, cannot, it's the lifeless things that stand firm by your side. When the day ends and the shadows come out to play, when you're the only one left, in the end you still have the walls. And then…the walls are _all_ you have. And if you talk to them long enough you make a sort of pact, spoken or silent, with those speechless stones: _'you're the only one I can trust.'_

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a _good_ one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice.  
But that doesn't mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn't like change.

…But that doesn't mean it won't.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn't his mirror.

Reflections are simple to change; put on some makeup, some war paint, a new change of clothes, get a piercing somewhere. Simple, yes, but not easy, to change completely, because that doesn't mean anything's changed inside.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son's world themselves.

Together they set aside a room for the child's arrival. Just one, single room. And the castle too knows, from the start, this room will be different from all the rest. They will put paintings on the walls, and banners in the halls; things to interest him, to tell him of his parents, at least, even if there are few other relatives to spend Christmas with. The carpets will be darker, instead of the stringent red, and they will make their words smaller, the books easier to understand. The rest of the castle is warm in color, but cool in atmosphere. This room will be cool in color, but warm in atmosphere. The fire will always be set in its place, and they will try their best to make sure the warmth reaches him; if the fire fails, they will knit blankets; if the blankets fail they will make him tea, or warm milk with honey; and when everything else fails they will hold him. If there are tears here, scornful stares will not greet them, instead, kisses and lullabies will be behind door number three. If this room lives, it will be because of something much softer than pounding metal and lighting.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula's castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… _other_ than the castle.

This room will bottle all the laughter had in this castle. This room will be made of and for living, not the death the rest of the place is steeped in. So much so that this room will not _stand_ for bloodshed.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

It is Dracula who takes the paint, who changes the color to something other than the blacks and reds of the rest of the Vampire's world, cementing on the walls themselves _You will not be dark here, my castle. You will be kind to him, Castlevania_. The castle doesn't know its master to work with his hands like a human, but Vlad is not the same within this room either—this room is part of the trade. He doesn't use magic, or science, as if he is telling himself with every hammer that they are going to change together, the way one does when talking to the mirror.

Lisa sits in a chair and stiches together cloth and fur to make little creatures, toys for the boy to play with. Soft things, not sharp. They are reflections too, littler, simpler ones, of the creatures howling and prowling outside the castle's walls, or scurrying within them.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other's clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations, walked outside, fingers knit into each other's, to gaze at them, and they want their child to be able to do the same, even if he's not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

For them, maybe, but to the castle, one of the most interesting things about this room, is the mirror. This is strange, as, while there are other mirrors in this house, they are nothing more than a silver decoration; they have no purpose here, unless they float in shards and possibility. This is an ordinary mirror. It does hold something now, however, and that's Lisa—only giving more credence to the idea that she is the only living thing in this castle. The castle wonders if they think it will reflect the child, as if they are hoping he will take after his mother and the room.

The mirror, and the windows. In the rest of the castle, the windows are always closed, curtained, or too small to let any real light in. But here they are big, and inviting to all the wiles of the day. Dracula protested—fearing he would burn. Lisa insisted—hoping he would shine.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it's not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein's table; just one lightning strike—(or one child's laugh)—away from breathing.


	2. Happy

_"I had entirely different books under my childhood bed. My father was a polymath, my mother was a doctor, and I grew up very fast."_

* * *

The castle doesn't like the crying.

This new being is here, alive, and apparently 'alive' means 'up at all hours bawling.' The castle is used to a general tone of sorrow, of people screaming, and wolves howling, but this incessant wailing, for no reason, certainly not a _good_ reason—(are there any 'good' reasons here?)—is not something that it enjoys echoing within its halls all the time. The room is not empty, isn't cold, or dark, but 'warm' and 'light' and 'full' would be pushing its luck. Letting the woman and her new life in, setting this room aside, changing that reflection, building this little universe, may just have been a mistake. Life is far more foul than death, the castle concludes; at least death is quiet.

But then there's another sound: sometimes, if they are very lucky, the child laughs.

…and the room fills with the sound, like air in its lungs.

It isn't just _the_ room anymore. It belongs to someone. It has a master. It's _his_ room. It's _Adrian's_ room.

Centuries went by when there was no laughter in these rooms. Not a single word, nor note of song, how could their ever be laughter? Dracula's castle was not a place for it, Dracula was not the creature to give it—(unless you count the maniacal kind). It was something neither castle nor master lamented the absence of—(aside from that of his victims, there was little lament here. The place was hollow, and that means there was no emotion here; no joy, nor real sorrow. Happiness is only real when sadness is too). But now that Castlevania knows the sound, a little of 'happy'…it may just melt all its gears to fill every hall with that tiny, shimmering sound.

And when Vlad smiles, laughs in return, bouncing this little golden boy on his knee—(so unlike how he treated the sons and daughters of others before)…the castle thinks it might just be able to handle the crying.

There's a painting here too, now. The walls in this room are not stagnant and bare. The three of them left one day, and when they came back—smiles on their faces, laughs in their throats—there was a painting in their hands, which they gave to the room.

A reflection of the family. Of 'family.' Of 'happy.'

There was no need for paintings before. The only master of this castle was here, in the blood—why depict him why you could just meet him? The castle didn't need brushstrokes on canvas to remember what Dracula's face looked like.

The castle may not have watched kings and queens reign and wither, may not pay homage to them with its walls, but it has three inhabitants now—the boy has two ancestors, one a king, one an ordinary woman—and well, they may as well reside on the walls too, just in case they're not always here; God knows it's too easy to lose anything living here.

Just to make sure the boy remembers their faces. What 'happy' looked like.

Soon the castle will understand that living things grow, and that perhaps the painting is not there for remembrance after death, but to remember when he was a tiny, smiling, crying ball of giggles…because he won't be like this forever.

The painting isn't the only thing on the walls either; the mirror. As they predicted, it is not empty here, though not magical, it isn't purposeless. It sits, watching all that goes on, and it holds the boy in its silver grasp, as well as his mother. They are real. They are alive. Two drops of sunlight.

Sunlight.

That's the other thing; the windows in the room are open now.

Humans seem to hunt, to find joy in, the sun. Vampires cannot even _live_ in the sunlight, much less enjoy it, so Dracula has no choice but to keep his castle dark.

But Adrian has a mother too, and is not all vampire. The point of the room was never to be pitch black anyways.

And when he opens the windows… it's as if the castle is a cat, and the little boy pulled its tail. It hurts, in a way; too much, too fast, without permission, thinking a part of its body is something to play with. The castle would like to scold, hiss, or at least glare at the boy, and wonders if the laughter's worth the sting.

But he doesn't let up. And somewhere in this too-exciting production, the castle grows to anticipate the sunlight's bite. This isn't like the ever-ache the emptiness wrought. It's a pang like medicine; not pleasant, but something you need to take every day.

And Castlevania does need it.

The castle thought its fashion was black, but when the child opens the curtains; when he plays with those toys his mother made in the golden afternoon; when he holds the prisms his father gave him to the rays, and they split into spectrums; when he lays as a teenager on the floor, surrounded by his own drawings, and crumpled attempts, draped in golden light, staring up at the day-stricken stars…it thinks gold doesn't look too bad on it.

Life stirs. Adrian opens the door to the room, and it starts to seep out into the halls.

The gold tiptoes along the walls, hides under beds, and behind couches. It sits quietly on cushions and floors and windowsills. It scurries through all the rooms, and toys with all the things under the motto 'don't play with that!' It dances to the rhythm inherent within it.

The boy and his mother, two rays of sunlight, chase each other through the halls. Their footsteps, the soft, chirpy patter, is music against the castle's stones—always so different from its master's unrelenting score. They run by Vlad's study laughing, and call its master, his father, to come out of the dark.

The castle is used to the unkind tones of its master, even towards children; it more than half expects him to scold them for the noise, to shut the door, or say nothing.

And sometimes he does.

But there are other times when he picks up the boy, puts him on his shoulders, and rushes through the halls himself, that death-knell of a walk becoming another spirited harmony in the song. Sometimes they even take this music outside; Vlad and his son become those running, howling things in the forest.

The castle has never seen its master like this. Just like when he worked with his hands to build the room. It isn't sure it likes. But then…it isn't sure it _dis_likes it either…

That isn't to say he never scolds the boy. In fact, one of the times he did was simply for opening a window somewhere outside his room. It may seem a small thing to raise one's voice over, but it's understandable when spontaneous combustion is on the other line. Its master is not ready to end the night. Castlevania is unsure, but it will not die in the light; in fact, against its better judgment…it thinks it's starting to _live_ in it.

He made Adrian cry when he reacted this way. Crying never meant a thing here; Dracula has caused many children to weep in his presence. But these tears—instead of making him raise himself up, look scornfully on, as he always did before—make Vlad pause, blink, soften his tone, kneel in front of him, try to stop them from flowing. So the castle pauses too.

Adrian is a bit of a sensitive child. At least, the castle draws that conclusion. Dracula's job doesn't call for wonton emotion, and he'd never fall for someone with a penchant for sentimentality. But the boy, though much of the time he takes after his parents, continues to shed tears even when he is older. Even if it is just him, alone in the room, and a secret only the castle knows. The castle no stranger to crying, especially since the boy spent much of its early life doing nothing but that. But now that the crying has meaning, now that the castle is beginning to understand what sorrow is—(and it doesn't like to think what it must have meant when Dracula's victims sobbed at his feet, that they were someone's parents, someone's children, and their castle's probably wanted to protect them too)—it is not sure it wants to be familiar with _Adrian _crying. But it cannot wrap its walls around him, hold him tight, and keep him warm like his parents can. It can only sit and wait for it to be over, and try to urge the fire to reach out to him.

Adrian is smart; he ages fast (that is, Lisa seemed surprised at how fast this transition occurred), and he learns faster, agile in his pursuits and eager at the knee of his learned parents. The castle is glad of this, as it was getting sick of all the easy words and games. Though it does miss the tiny smiles and laughter sometimes. Crying was more common when he was a tiny, wordless life, but so was laughter. The castle learns as children grow up, though sadness isn't so frequent, 'happy' becomes a rare gem too. Because they are only noise to a baby, only it testing out its new mouth. As they grow, as they learn of words, and both 'happy' and 'sad,' both crying and laughter, have far too much meaning.

All those things his parents built and brought—the charts, and books and stars—start to become useful. Vlad walks a curious, more mature Adrian through the libraries, and to the rooms where the shards of not-quite-normal mirrors reflect places other than this one, transporting him to new worlds, both literally and figuratively. He may not be able to open the windows outside his room, (at least not when his father is around), but all those things that for so long sat dormant and unread on their shelves now come alive, much like the things in the room; little toy soldiers at the beck and call of the child's imagination.

Imagination. The castle didn't know what that was until now. It is the essence of that life-creating attribute Lisa brought here. The stuffed cloth becomes growling wolves in the child's hands. Toy figures become humans, vampires, locked in a duel. Empty words become stories, become worlds. Empty pages become landscapes and portraits. The child's mind gives life to inanimate things, like some sort of wandless, effortless, magic.

And, seeing its master take the boy through the halls, showing him all the magic, the mystery, the meaning of things, the castle realizes it's watching its master come to life as well.

Lifelessness was a fact of life here, it never seemed wrong or lacking, but the castle wonders if only children have the power to imagine things to life, or if this exists in adults too. It's never seen Vlad play with toys, but now it knows that toys aren't just silly objects; they are living things, animals, and people, and worlds, to a child. The castle wonders if reflections can be toys too. Castlevania wonders if this thing, this need for something more than lifeless stone, this need for life, this simple, complex magic, might be why lonely people talk to walls.

There are books in that room. But they do not sit still on their shelves. There are toys and in that room, but they are not worthless trinkets on the floor. There is a mirror in that room, but it is not empty. There are windows in that room, but they do not stay dark. There is a fire in that room, but it is not cold. There is a boy in that room, and he is alive.

Adrian laughs, and he cries. He reads and he learns. He casts spells and he casts his pen to the page. He plays, and he draws, and he imagines, and he brings to life everything around him.

And that warmth, that light, that life, is spreading through Castlevania like medicine in its veins. It never minded the cold, the dark, the death, and the lonely, but the warmth…the light…the life…

Adrian opens the windows, opens the door.

And, in the center of life-strewn universe they built, the room sighs.


	3. Alucard

_"'Alucard', they called me. The opposite of you. Mother never liked that. Did you know that? She hated the idea that I might define myself by you. Even in opposition to you. She loved us both. Enough that she wanted us to be our own people. Living our own lives. Making our own choices."_

* * *

The castle doesn't like it when Adrian leaves.

Adrian is a child of both worlds, so he must walk in the day every once and a while. He cannot stay in the castle, in the night, forever; he must travel outside the room, feel the sunlight without the glass. He must understand his mother's people; his human half. A glass half full is a glass half empty, and he understands his duty to fill in the blanks where humanity is supposed to be.

Castlevania is unsure. Afraid, perhaps. It does not know much of humanity…but it does know that their blood tastes sweet, their words sound sour, their hands feel bitter. It knows they are not likely to treat the son of the vampire king with kindness.

It knows of only one human whose touch and words are sweet without taste.

If his mother can be kind… is it possible other humans can be too? Or does being a mother simply necessitate kindness? Is it possible there is more to them than sour speech and the bitter fists? That they are more than just something to fill its master's appetite and quiet his boredom?

Lisa tells them all so. She gathers her family in the room, and tells them stories of knights and heroes, witches and villains. Of good kings, and evil priests. Of good gods, and evil queens. Of demons and zombies and the heroes who rose up against them—(and maybe Adrian can be one of them, some day). Of people who have nothing but manage to change the world anyways. Of people who have everything but are empty all the same—(that one started to sound a little too familiar). And not all of the stories are read out of books. Some are real, were history. Some she'd even seen herself. Some were told to her. She said she heard some of the most wonderful ones from a Speaker once. She even made some up. Until Adrian himself formed stories when she wasn't there to tell them.

Dracula looks out the window at the rain, chuckles to himself at the fact that too many of her stories end happily…but something deep inside his eyes is trying, trying to believe her. To believe there's truth to these stories, even those she made up. To let the light in her eyes flow into his. He tries to make up his own stories too, sometimes. But the darkness in his presence does its best to swallow the light in her words.

Adrian snuggles up beside her and the gleam in her eyes reflects in his without a second's resistance. Enough that after a childhood of listening to these stories, begging for his parents to take him outside, he can barely wait to experience it himself.

That's not to say he never left. She took him out on little trips, letting him take bites of the world out there. Each time he came back with treasures—(well what he considered treasures)—in his hands, and a grin secured firmly to his face, and he'd ask with voice bright and fast as a hummingbird, where they'd go out next, and how long he'd have to wait. Even his father took him out to the enchanted forests and grottos of the world for lessons, but always made sure they were the deepest, most well-kept secrets of the world, where no human would find them.

Well, most of the time. There were times when he came back with tears in his eyes. He'd ask what a _What's a 'monster'?_, and his father would lean down, put his hand on his cheek, and say _Definitely not you_. Lisa would plead or argue with her husband, but when Dracula would leave, the moon would turn red, and he'd remember what blood tasted like.

But this is different. This isn't some day trip to come back with trinkets, some night lesson to come back with knowledge. The time it's stretched out, and stretching them thin.

When he leaves and doesn't come back that night… that morning…the next…the room tries to speak but finds there's no breath in it, like it got the wind knocked out of it.

This is a different emptiness from what Castlevania was before. It isn't a principal, not simply a fact of life. It is an absence. An absence of something living. An absence of a fact of life. A true emptiness in that the room was once full.

It doesn't take long for the room to know what _I miss you_ means; that absence creates ripples of yearning in its wake. That emptiness aches to be filled. It misses the games he played in the sunlight, it misses the lullabies, the drawings, counting the stars and sitting by the fire, the moments when the family would tell stories to the walls they didn't know were listening.

It even misses the crying.

The clock tower's ticking eats away at them from the inside.

And within the ticking, the room, the castle, wonder what the humans will do to him out there.

Will he be a monster in their eyes? An enemy, a beast, an ugly thing? Will they not see the light in his nature, rather the dark that nurtured him?

Will he be a cacophony to their ears, the screeches and howls of undead things, instead of the symphony they know his voice to be?

Will his blood be that of demons and beasts to their noses, and will they cast him out for not being human enough?

Will he be a toy in their hands, just as he played humans-and-vampires, just as he pretended to fight monsters with wooden swords?

…But he is alive, and living things ought not be played with, for they cannot be imagined into something they're not.

And if he _is_ a toy to them…what will they make of him? Will they imagine him as a human like them? Or will they imagine him into a monster he is not? Will they realize he is neither? Will they think he needs the night when he is perfectly fine in the day? What stories will they tell of him?

Castlevania has not met many humans. But those it has were prone to make monsters out decent men, and weapons out of instruments of peace.

Will the humans' mouths be forked and deadly as ever? Will their hands be weak and empty as ever? Will they assess him as fuel for their ever-greedy fire? Will they take the life—they who have so much of it, take the single life they have here, the one that brought it to them all—and crush it out of him, figuratively or literally?

Will they bully him, and scorn him, and lie to him, and cheat him and hate him and…_hurt_ him?

The room twists and spirals in its thoughts, as if going down a hill, and throbs at the last word.

_Or…_ says the castle softly, _Will they welcome him? Will they understand him? Will they see him as we have? As he truly is? Will his light withstand the darkness in them? Can he bring life to these bloodthirsty beasts?_

When Adrian returns, what—or _who_—will he be?

The castle and the room wonder, and wait, and question, and long for him as they are left in the dark, holding their breath until breath itself is but a fleeting memory.

They couldn't say how long it had been since he left, it could have been a lifetime. But one day, as black and white as the rest, the morning comes with spreading color, and breath tumbles into the deepest corners of the room again.

They are equal parts nervous and eager to hear the stories he has to tell; for these monsters and men are more than toys.

And he _does_ have stories to tell.

Out there, adventure exists in more than just books. Out there he can learn without charts and lectures; he can learn by doing, by experiencing. He can put to use, and to the test, all the spells and techniques he practiced indoors. Out there the scenes that were pictures before are real, are alive—the rain licks and the snow bites, the grass whispers as the wind sings its haunting melody, and the rivers join in response. Out there he can smell the trees, and flowers, the campfires, listen to the howls and chirps of the animals, and feel the sun on his skin without the glass to separate them. Taste the world. And out there the heroes and villains are animate too—he can speak to them, and won't have to dream up their responses. He can make friends and enemies out of words and actions instead of wood and clay. Out there the threats, the demons and monsters are real too, and he has to fight them with something sharp—be it his pen or his sword. Out there, imagination is a weapon against reality. Out there he doesn't have to imagine his world to life because it already is. And he is alive in it…this is his life that he is finally living.

That is what a life is. The idea echoes in the room.

(_If this is a life…are we alive?_ The room asks.

_Alive isn't the same as life_. Castlevania mutters softly, and doesn't explain.)

And, amongst all the adventures they learn that while he walked the world a spell, his mother's people gave him a new name:

_"Alucard."_

Alucard. The reverse of Dracula.

They looked at him, they listened to him, they spent time with him and they understood—_(breathe again and be still, they understood)_—they understood that he was not the dark and the cold and the death his father is. In fact, they thought that he was so different from his father that this reversal must be his name.

The room is proud of him, happy for him, relieved, for this was its purpose, its hope. Relieved to have him back—more full of life and light than ever.

Lisa, while always proud of him, doesn't like the name. She named him after all, it makes sense that she wouldn't appreciate a dismissal of the name she chose. But…there's more to it than that. She doesn't want him to be defined by his father. She doesn't want him to be a difference, a reverse. She wants him to be himself. Him and his father to be different people. She wants them to be themselves; not dividends, fractured pieces of one another put back together in different orders.

(But aren't we all fractured pieces of each other? Don't we take fragments of each other to make up ourselves?)

This is a strange thought to Castlevania, for it has always been defined by Dracula, and never minded, but perhaps mirrors ought not mind their reflectors. Adrian is no mirror. Still, the castle has always compared the boy to his father. The room was always meant to be the opposite of the Dracula, of his castle. The boy's very existence has always spelled the reverse of everything they knew. Its only fitting the boy would be a reversal of his father.

'Adrian' is a nice name…but 'Alucard' fits like a tailored suit.

Adrian likes the world. Makes sense, he likes the sun, the day, the mirrors, the books, the stories, the people.

But what doesn't make as much sense, and what's more important, is the world likes him. At first its strange, but as the castle thinks about it more it makes sense; they may have come with pitchforks before, because they didn't like Dracula. …But Alucard is not Dracula.

The room breathes deep, more alive than ever. And, as its master returns, tells his story, the room learns too.

Castlevania may be able to move for its master, but the room is stuck in its place. It cannot see the rest of the world like the boy can. It understands now that Alucard being different from Dracula also means that he cannot stay inside like his father does. That though it hurts when he leaves, the room can never be everything he needs the way the castle can for Dracula. That he is made for something bigger than four walls…even if those four walls were part of what made him.

It understands that breath cannot be a constant for it. That its master will leave, and the room will be hollow and ache for certain periods of time. This is a fact of life. This is what living is.

But it also understands that he will always come back. This isn't something it reasoned or multiplied out. This is just something it knows within the oldest parts of it; that they will never be apart forever.

Now that the room is alive within the castle it will always be its own existence. Even if it's empty, even if it gets broken and battered, it will always be the universe they built for him, a universe can't be destroyed by mortal hands. It can never be fully erased as long as Alucard lives.

(…And Castlevania understands that is dangerous.)

The room understands that though life was always a stagnant thing for the castle, it is more dynamic and elusive for it. It will go through periods where there is nothing in that room, and the emptiness will throb, but in the same way that Alucard has the kind of life Dracula could never have, the room will have the kind of life the castle could never have.

The room's breath will ever be catching itself and falling, like a dance, as if always during the most exiting part of a story.


	4. Empty

_"He's gone mad. And from that, there is no recovering him…It's a tragedy…He could've changed the world. I think he might have, if Mother hadn't died._

_"She'd sent him out into the world. That's why he wasn't there when the bishops took her…She sent him to travel…_

_"Imagine if…the religious inquisition hadn't proved true all of his worst instincts about humans."_

_"And now he's going to use her death as an excuse to destroy the world."_

_"Oh, the world will still be here…But you will not be here…None of you…There will only be Dracula and his war council, and the hordes of the night…_

_"Imagine it. A world without humans, under endless invented night. And Dracula in his castle, his revenge so horribly complete that there is nothing left to do but look out over a world without art or memory or laughter and know that he did his work well. That he did it all for love."_

* * *

The Castle doesn't like the idea of its master going away.

They have been inseparable for such a long time now; the Castle has bent and broken and been Dracula's castle for centuries. Its master leaves every once and a while, and he visits the woman's home. But weeks, to months, to years without him is too long for a mirror to be apart from the thing it reflects. This is a vampire's castle and Dracula is that vampire; he must stay inside its walls, in the cold and the dark, lest he burn. This is Dracula's castle, and Dracula must stay within its halls. If he doesn't…what is Castlevania after all? Just an empty tomb. A shell of something that was once living. A broken toy on the playroom floor, left there to start its dust collection after the child grew up.

Dracula never _has_ to leave, for the Castle can take him wherever he wants to go in a flash of lightning and a rumble of dust and thunder. The idea that Vlad would travel the world _like a man_, all alone in the light, without his Castle, his shroud of darkness, isn't right, to both of them, at first.

Hasn't Castlevania done enough for its master? He is not like the boy, who needs to walk in the day. All he needs are these walls, the blood, and the night.

The woman has a way with persuasion. This was part of the trade, after all, Castlevania remembers. Dracula gave Lisa undying knowledge, and she took the immortal beakers and books—a part of Castlevania—out into the world to 'do some good.' (The Castle wasn't sure quite how that worked, but she did have a knack for making good out of the patchwork pieces of evil.) It is Vlad's turn to be given a piece of her mortality to take inside.

Lisa assures them that, just as Adrian came back more alive than ever, this will be a better form of life for Vlad too. He will have to be more careful; to stay out of the sun, to ask to be invited, to wear traveling cloaks, not royal robes, to temper his thirst, and be patient with humanity—(just as she has been with him)—but in the end he will come back clothed in gold, and it will all be worth it.

Castlevania wishes it had human hands to hold onto him, but all it has are cold stones, and mechanical bones; it cannot keep him within its walls forever, without collapsing.

Dracula kisses them goodbye with hope in one hand, promises in the other, two rays of sunlight ever in his heart, saying he'll be back.

And he doesn't come back that night. That morning. The next.

When Adrian left, the Room understood the meaning of the words '_I miss you_.' It realized what it was to be empty—that is, in that it was once once full, and was missing something. After all those years, Castlevania too finally understands the true meaning of all those words once used to describe it: 'lonely,' 'dark,' 'cold,' and 'empty.' It _was_ those things, it never _felt_ those things itself before.

Dracula may have been cold and dark and undead, but he brought life of a sort to the Castle. He made it breathe, its heart beat. Just his footsteps in the halls was a comfort, a kind of music—be it mechanical and half-dead. And finally he talked to the walls. 'Emptiness' for it is was an adjective, not a noun; it was an outfit it wore, not a feeling etched deep within the walls in a place no one could ever really touch.

It didn't know what it was like to lose your purpose, what a hopeless existence it is for a mirror to be without a reflection.

The Castle doesn't know if it ever breathed, but it thinks it understands the breathlessness the Room must have felt without Adrian. It is big, and rich, and intricate…and hollow. It's like there's a hole somewhere deep inside it that cries to be filled, and can never be as long as its master is away.

_But we are not alone_, says the Room.

It looks up and remembers this is true; Adrian remains. Their boy. The boy who belongs to its master, the woman, and the Room together. And Castlevania likes to think he belongs to it too, in some way. The boy for whom that death-defying Room exists. The boy who stole patches of sunlight when his father wasn't looking, who cried when when no one was listening, who brought books, toys, and drawings, lonely vampire kings, and old decrepit castles to life.

It feels cold and dark, dead and empty…until Alucard opens the windows.

The Castle is thrown into a pool of gold, and the sensation is jarring; the switching of states, temperatures so fast. Such a drastic change so quickly isn't all right with Castlevania, especially when it is so different from how its master always dressed it. It is Dracula's castle, that piercing, dripping stain that no light enters. It shouldn't go out in colorful garb, it just isn't fitting. Though perhaps the jarring change is ultimately less painful than dipping each room in slowly.

It's that same tail-pulling sensation from when he was a boy. Except this is much worse, because it's the _whole_ Castle—its entire form—and he never closes them. Before it was just the Room, and the Room is a part of the Castle, so the Castle could feel its burn, but it was dulled there. When he opened the door to the Room, the light slithered out, its scales doused in poison, leaving a stinging trail as it went. But its cage was always in the Room; its venom didn't remain in the Castle's veins forever. Now there is no barrier between the Castle and the light, no home for the sun to crawl back to. It has been let loose, and the stones are soaked in venom, like needles all over the Castle's body.

Its existence is now drenched in sunlight. Before long it becomes like how they painted the Room so long ago, it is a fact of life—at least while Alucard reigns, and the Castle looks completely different dressed in morning sunrise.

The sting begins to fade; the Castle becoming immune to the poison. And, after the pain ebbs, the Castle can look at itself objectively, and thinks somewhere deep beneath its walls, in a place it would never share, that maybe this change is not a bad thing.

The Room breathes deeper than ever before, enough to laugh. Grinning it turns to the Castle, as if saying _Feels good doesn't it?_

Castlevania looks away.

There was so much it didn't notice about itself before. The gold on the carpets shimmers, it knows now that mirrors glitter, and how much dust was on the bookshelves—(Adrian is sure to brush it off)—it knows now why others put pictures on the walls; because the stones are so bare and uninteresting in the light, and the fires are such a aggressive light and heat compared to the soft blanket of warmth over the world, like snowfall transforming all.

It knows now why humans like to go out during the day.

It is a different kind of life. It isn't like the science Vlad used to make it breathe and beat. This is softer, quieter, warmer. Less mechanical more…_real_. It doesn't mean Vlad's method of bringing it to life was bad or wrong, nor that Alucard's is good, or right, it's just different. And maybe different is okay for now.

The boy looks different too.

Adrian's features are illuminated, his expressions dance in ray and shadow, his hair is like liquid gold draining across his shoulders, his eyes flicker and dance like candlelight.

And he doesn't burn.

Adrian reads books in the sun, and he practices magic and sword in the sun, he drinks tea and wine—not blood—in the softly lit kitchen, polishes the shelves, makes sure everything works properly, and sits on the balconies and lets the wind brush through his hair, all in the sun, in the sun. Sometimes he leaves to go outside, into towns, to get rid of a monster or two, but mostly he leaves to visit his mother. Even when he does, the world is left in a satisfied glow.

His golden hair and eyes are no longer a bright spot on a dark canvas, but a reflection of his universe. His parents may have built his universe long ago, but he has spread his Room throughout Castlevania, conquered the multiverses around him, claiming them for his own, until the Castle doesn't know which of them is which anymore.

The gold dripping through the halls reminds the Castle of that word from long ago, the one used to describe the baby in the painting: "happy." It may be a pale echo of the world back then, when all three of them there, but the Castle is well versed in the world of reflections, and knows there is a world in which they don't exist, and an echo may not be the real thing, but it will satisfy as a substitute.

Those times are quiet, with fewer raids, fewer pitchforks, shoutings and fires, because people like Alucard. They didn't like Dracula, but Alucard is not Dracula. And Castlevania could enjoy the excitement…but the quiet is nice for a while.

Even so, the quiet does remind it of what, _who_, is absent. The Castle misses its master. The boy, the sun, the change, may help, but that fact will always remain at the back of its consciousness. There will always be some emptinesses that cannot be filled with substitutes. It misses its master, wants him to come back. Even so, it thinks it may be able to last a few months longer in the sun. Until Vlad returns, at least.

And he does.

Dracula does return. And when he does, he is not the same. But not in the way they were expecting; he does not arrive full of life, spreading his newfound spirit throughout the halls—as Alucard's glowing return made them anticipate. He doesn't come with a new name and tales of how he defeated monsters and made friends, he doesn't return with a new perspective, and a handful of smiles. He returns, but it's almost as if he still hasn't. He is more dead than Castlevania has ever seen him. As if the sun burned him after all. But it burned something deep beneath his skin.

There is no joyful banquet of welcome. He does not kiss their cheeks, hug them and whisper into their ears _I missed you so, my Castle, my Sunlight_. He does not come bearing gifts for his son, nor decorations for his Castle, from afar. He does not sigh and say _it's good to be home_ and remember his purpose.

Castlevania may not have ever breathed, but there was something like it when Vlad was here. He brought it to life somehow. Castle's cannot speak but it felt they had a way of communicating somehow. Mirrors cannot speak either, but we hear their words all the same. But Dracula doesn't talk to the walls anymore. And he cannot hear his Castle's reply.

He marches in all too quickly, a purpose in his stride. But it's not a fulfilling purpose, like that of the Room, nor a reflective purpose, like that of the Castle, rather it's the emptiness before. Emptiness, yes… but not like before. Not the adjective, the outfit from his previous reign, not the noun, the feeling from when he was gone, instead it is a verb; it is something active. It's more than just a lack of something; something grew, came alive in and of the lack. It's a hungry emptiness, like the humans' fire set to swallow everything deemed unworthy. The Castle has worn emptiness before, but this is different…or maybe _it_ is different now.

Vlad left as a man, walking on his own feet, taking the slower path, but he comes back as a vampire, teleporting in a flash of flame, forgetting that he has legs that would like to carry him to distant lands, and hands that would like to touch the world, and eyes that would like to see the scenery.

The once light-laced windows shutter at his arrival, the curtains slam shut, as if the Castle got a chill at his footsteps. As if they were doing something wrong, and had to shut it down as fast as possible. Every single one of them shivers, closes, dares not refuse their master.

All except the those in the Room. Those in the Room do not shudder or shut down. Dracula is not their master. They will not obey. They cannot do much to protest the night, but they will do what they can; they will stand open and unafraid of the dark.

Castle's can't get slapped in the face, but if they could, this is what it probably would feel like.

Coming home without the home in his heart…like Castlevania isn't home for him anymore.

They were learning how to change together; its master was supposed to return full of life. Together they were meant to feel the light's sting, together they were meant to learn to live in it. To see the true state of their world, without the darkness to cover it up. Instead he came back empty, all that life he gained while Lisa and Adrian were here used up, stolen away from him by a cruel world. The Castle wasn't worried about the humans ransacking what little light existed in Dracula, as they feared with Alucard—surely Vlad could only gain, he did not have enough in him to lose.

Castlevania understands now what it should have done; it should have collapsed all its walls to keep him inside.

It is far worse to know the light, and have it snatched away, than to only know the dark.

The Castle would be happy to at least have its master back, regardless if the experiment succeeded…But it isn't sure it does.

Dracula has been angry before, but anger was a thing to take outside and deal with, not bring inside. The Castle is, for the most part, a quiet, soft place for him to spend his time, to contemplate, and learn, to experiment in, not to brood in rage. Rage was for the outside world. Inside may have been cold, dark and empty but it was serenity.

The darkness and the cold and the death this Castle once transmitted are no longer a radio station to be changed with the flick of a dial. These qualities have infected Dracula's very being, it seeps out of him with every waxing and waning footstep, it oozes out of him as he sits in his study—no longer in quiet contemplation, but an unrest that is so loud it resonates perfectly with everything Castlevania is made of. It resonates so perfectly it reminds Castlevania of everything it once was when the vampire king ruled, tuning, turning it back into something that cares not for the color gold, and the discrepancies between its existence then and now melt away into before. It resonates perfectly with everything Castlevania is made of…and it thinks it just might shatter.

—(And maybe that would be a good thing, because it would let the light in. Maybe that's the only way to let the light in now)—

The emptiness the Castle was before, the emptiness the Castle felt when Dracula first left has swallowed its master, and Dracula is now not a thing to reflect, but a negative space on the pages, a black hole that takes in all light and life and devours it. He walks in, not as its master who brought it to life, returning that life to the emptiness, filling those places the light still couldn't reach, those places ever missing him… but as an empty shell that cannot fill anything, and only makes them all emptier they longer they look at him.

Dracula has been undead before. But that was _un_dead; not quite alive, not quite dead either—and he could swing to either side. This is different.

With one swipe he rips off all the gold the Castle wore just yesterday like thieves in the night, leaving it broke and naked on the highway, and such a drastic change so quickly sends it lying on the floor in shock, one question dying on open lips, tears draining down its cheeks:

_Why?!_

When he left so full, what could have taken all that away? What could have taken away even what little life he had before it all? Did the world chip away at him slowly, or was it one event that kidnapped his life? What, who did they need to destroy?

Then, as Dracula marches into the library with the big broken mirror, and talks to a crowd of humans with tongues of a fire, it learns:

It is the woman. The woman who knocked on the Castle door all those years ago with the pommel of her knife. The woman with the soft hands and the defiant heart. The only human who was sweet in more than taste. Lisa, who brought sunlight into the darkest reaches of the Castle.

Vlad's wife has been taken from him.

Dracula's life has been taken from him.

The sanguine nature of humanity. Their penchant for setting things on fire. The ravenous nature of those flames. Vampires are known for being bloodthirsty, but the Castle always knew their thirst never compared to that of humanity. Vampires are known for catching on fire but she was never turned, and did she need to burn?

The world has taken the woman, and, worse, its master's life away, and the Castle is more than willing to go to war for it. It agrees humanity must die for such a crime.

Hating and blaming the world, the humans who once scratched at the doors and howled at the moon is better than facing the thing deep inside Castlevania that tells it it's all its fault. All its fault for letting her take pieces of it outside.

After all, it was the parts of Castlevania—the beakers and books—which she took outside to help people, to 'do some good,' which got her killed. So maybe its master is right that they can't be helped. Maybe there isn't any good in the world after all.

_But something is still here._ The Room says, once again. _Someone._

_Yes, she brought life into this place, and much of that life would leave with her. But have you forgotten that there is a life that cannot be taken away with her? That they _created _life within your miserable walls and that life, well, _lives_? Remember that a piece of her is still here, and you don't have to pretend death is all that's left._

The Room sees that the boy's father is cold, and dark, empty, and dead. But unlike the Castle as a whole, for which these words are outfits to wear, facts of life, the Room has learned these are problems, and there are solutions to them. Solutions which the boy can enact.

_He is dark_. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with dark things.

_So open a window_, it tells Adrian. _Let the sunlight in. _

The Room's window has always been open, and it does not know the flammable nature of full-blooded vampires. But starlight is a kind of light too.

_He is cold_. Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with cold things.

_So hold him_. It tells his son. _Like he did for you, all those years ago, when you were a tiny, bawling thing._

_He is dead._ Observes the Room.

It ponders what to do with dead things. The Room sits and thinks and begins to despair, for it does not know how to bring the dead to life.

The Castle takes a deep breath, and finally speaks up;

_You opened the windows and cast the darkness away._ It tells Alucard. _You let the sun in and warmed my halls. _

_So take that gold, form it into a cloak, and dress him in it. Teach him what your universe looks like, what I looked like, when you were here._

_Take him by the arm, and walk with him out into the stars, call them by name, like he, you and your mother did, long ago._

_Go to him. Hold him. And don't let go._

_Lisa brought life to this place. You are the life they created. You are their legacy. You are the one life her death cannot take away. _

_If you can do that for me, if you can bring this old, wretched castle to life, you can reanimate your father too. All you need to do is remind him that you are here._

The Castle hopes, somewhere in the back of its mind it dreams, he can still come back to life. It is his reflection, after all; surely what worked for the Castle can work for Dracula.

But…it is his reflection, after all. And as Alucard marches through the halls, and while the Room continues to urge the boy to go to his father, the Castle digs its nails into its palm until it bleeds, biting back against the anger bubbling inside it even so, knowing that war cries cannot be rewound so easily.

The boy answers their call, though maybe not in the way they expect. No…it is better than some loving display.

He does not open the windows, but he does open a door, and when he walks in, his face is barely visible, not because it's dark, but because he is draped, surrounded in light, like the sun itself is behind his decree. The light has followed him from his room, slithered along the halls, and formed itself into wings on his back. His tone is firm and defiant, and as he confronts him, Lisa's voice rings through the halls.

And the Castle understands now that light, warmth, and life, no matter how much they seem so, are not soft, not weak. They are violent, and they burn.

Alucard opposes all the war, the blood, the revenge, proving once and for all that the Room has reached him, fulfilled its purpose. And his words—while Dracula's drip with rage, like the blood down his fingers—are filled with the same _I-know-what's-good-and-I'm-not-leaving-till-it-comes-out_ his mother's words were once laced with. Echoing behind every sunstruck syllable is his mother's _I want to save people. _

And they understand at last that rooms aren't the only things with purposes.

Dracula has been undead before, but this death is different; this is more than a living death, death is a living thing in him.

Death has its strings wrapped around the vampire king's wrists, plugged into his chest. This war, the cold, the death, and the emptiness, are all he wants, all he _is_ now.

The Castle's consciousness thrashes between the two sides; between Dracula's black anger and Alucard's golden hope.

And anger wins.

The Castle is used to being spattered with blood, but when the boy's—

—_Adrian_, who laughed, who played pretend, and showed them what 'happy' was, Alucard, the reverse of Dracula, who let the light in—

—blood is spilled by its _master_, the boy's _father_, the one who created him and his light-strewn world, who laughed, and played with him, and painted the walls, and walked amongst the stars, who should know more than anyone he is worth listening to—

Castlevania thinks it might not like the cold, the dark, the empty, or the blood at all anymore.

The red stain is an unbearable itch it's hopeless to scratch. The blood burns like acid on its floors, a brand of this war, this death, this emptiness burned upon its flank, as if making it remember its original purpose and habit, and who it is meant to obey. It wants to collapse on the floor, to writhe and scream and clutch at the place where it hurts.

But castles do not cry. They do not scream. They do not ache.

It can only be a reflection, can only do what its master wants; be an instrument of war. That is all. It can only obey, and try to remember what it liked about the color black.

Alucard—still alive, thank whatever gods might be out there—cannot stay in these blackened halls anymore, and neither can the sunlight. When he leaves, he takes with him all the things he brought inside.

Dracula shuts the door to the Room; he hides the walls he painted, the toys she stitched, the stars they gazed at, the books they fell asleep to together, and the window where the boy danced in the light, like he's playing peekaboo; if he covers his eyes, the outside world will stop existing…or in this case, the inside one. As if it lying dormant will allow the emptiness to swallow it, and it to become a part of the Castle again. As if he's trying to forget the very life he's going to war for. Like he can silence his own heart, tell it that it doesn't, doesn't, doesn't beat anymore. He hides the only pocket of heaven that ever existed in his finely crafted hell, and tries to pretend that there was never any laughter, any light here, and they can all forget what it was to be happy.

The Castle wonders if this is what it feels like when people try to lock away the best parts of themselves because they ache.

But the Room has become something more now. It has always been different, separate. It was never just not-cold, not-dark, not-empty, not-dead. It was not a negative. It was warm, light, full, and alive. And that doesn't just go away. Its very existence _defies_ being swallowed. It has always protected the thing inside it against the blood and the dark and the death, and it cannot, _will_ not, accept them now. It enjoyed playing make-believe with the boy, but this isn't pretend, imagination, the Room knows what is real, and this is a lie, and the Room will not stand for it, will not accept the thought that it never existed, never held any sunlight, that there was never any laughter here. It is alive, and it can only sleep, not retreat back into a state of nonexistence. It is not dead, and will not just sit still; it shivers in the cold and the dark. It may be lonely without the boy, but it will not just sit there in silence, or else get down on itself, quietly mourning the boy's departure, thinking there is nothing it can do. It _knows_ Alucard is coming back. The Room has grown up, and it doesn't fear its master is gone forever when he leaves for a while. Its master _will_ return, and when he does, he will fight. He will oppose the cold, the dark, and the death again, this time stronger. So no, it is not empty, just uninhabited.

And Dracula knows this. Dracula knows he cannot let the Room have a single second to breathe, because if it does, hope might just come back. So he wraps his claw around the Room's throat and squeezes.

And it hurts. Far more than the sting of sunlight, Castlevania knows how much the Room hurts. Because, though they are separate, the Room will always be a part of the Castle. The light's sting may have hurt, but it was passive, the side effect of medicine. This is an active, hateful, and sick. The Castle may have winced at the light's bite. But the Room squirms within, and grapples at his grasp, fight alight, life and rage blazing in its eyes, locked on Dracula.

The books cough until their lungs bleed, the toys whine until their voices break, the drawings beat against the walls they're upon until their skin rips open, the stars twinkle until they can't open their eyes, and the the painting of that child in the arms of his mother and father, 'happy,' hangs limp on the wall with its tongue cut out. The Room _burns_ in the middle of the Castle.

_I won't forget_. Castlevania says fervently, shaking its head. _I won't forget Lisa. I won't forget Alucard. I won't who they were when they were together. I won't forget what it was to be happy. I won't forget who I was in the light. I won't—_

But Dracula rips them apart, the door shuts, and their connection dulls. The Castle's own heartbeat begins fading.

The Castle gets frostbite, goes numb in the cold. It starts to go blind in the dark. The emptiness starts to rot its chest. Something in it dies.

Castles do not have hearts, but Castlevania wonders if this is what it feels like when one breaks.

And the Room suffocates.


	5. War

_"You really don't understand the act of forging. He's not dead. We make life from death here."_  
_"And you make soldiers for Dracula, which is one reason why he invests so much in you despite your…humanity. …Dracula brought us all here to fight his war, Hector. All the vampires under his reign."_  
_"_The_ war. Not his war."_  
_"…Hector do you think this war is going well? ...It__ seems chaotic, undirected, as if we were lashing out at humanity without any real plan beyond wild destruction."_  
_"I think wild destruction is what he wants."_  
*****  
_"Are you still my friend?"_  
_"Always."_  
_"Then know that you may be alone."_

* * *

The Castle does not like these guests Dracula has let in.

It knows many of them; has housed a number of them before. But that was _before_. Before the Life. Before the Light. And it no longer likes the death and the dark. It no longer likes the way these guests squabble, and talk of death and war as if it's not at their beck and call. It feels like it's infested with bedbugs, bitten a hundred times in its place of rest, itchy till it can't fall asleep anymore.

The war room is always the most jittery and loud, housing the war its named after.

They have brought their war with them. The Castle must and will fight Dracula's war, but only _Dracula's_ war. Dracula may think they fight his war. But the war they bring is their own, more insidious, having its own branches, trying to choke out its master's goals. There is descent. Secrets fluttering on silver tongues, like moths in the halls, congregating around any light here. Viruses, lies contaminating its walls. Betrayal against its master, who was gracious enough to invite them in.

Its master wonders to the walls who his friends are—as well he should, for he has so few—and the Castle wishes in its numb state he never let them in. Why couldn't he have just stayed with his boy, and let the light reach him?

Godbrand's voice comprises much of the war in the war room; all thirst, and little to no thought. Very much a vampire, the undeath in him attempting to steal the life of everything he comes into contact with. So human; his words comprised of bloodthirst, fists full of fire.

Camilla's dagger-sharp footsteps in the halls, the towers, like pinpricks, like tiny little bites. A parasite that wriggled into Castlevania's heart, attempting to make it beat to her duplicitous rhythm. The queen, who walks in stride with the cold, the death, and the dark that took the Castle so long to grow out of the habit of wearing. They are like a loyal shadow at her heels, clawing at the walls. The Castle liked her once, for the same reason it doesn't like her now.

She challenges Dracula and all the life he ever managed to find.

There are other vampires too—some with names, others toy soldiers—but they are hardly worth mentioning, for there are little more than smoke and noise, mist and shadow.

…Well, maybe the Castle doesn't dislike everyone.

Castlevania likes Hector. Likes the sound of Hector hammering the death out of things in its dungeon. It may not be the golden life, it may not be warm or tender, and it may make demons for war, but it is life of a sort. The boy is kind and gentle, and he likes dogs, and sunlight.

It is nice to have dogs and cats scampering and yipping in its halls. Hector is right when he says they are far better than people. Dracula never let Adrian get a dog, and this kind of pure, gentle life is the closest thing to sunlight they can get in this night-shrouded place. In the same token, Castlevania wishes it could bottle up the sunlight and bring it down into the dungeon to him.

Castlevania likes Isaac. Very much in fact. Isaac is loyal to its master, and loyalty is a rare commodity in these infested halls. He may be the only who still has it. And that is a kind of life too. The Castle snatches a smile when it sees the two speaking as friends, glad there is, at least, someone left its master can speak to.

It is because the Castle likes Isaac that it doesn't like the sound of Isaacs whip. Self-discipline isn't so bad of a thing…but the Castle knows of pain now. The Castle wouldn't have cared before, but now it knows what little boys who believe in love deserve; it knows that good masters never whip their servants, their children, or their castles. And 'doesn't like' is not merely a preference now, because the sight of Isaac's blood…it hurts. But Isaac lived too long in the sun, and now he prefers the cold and the dark. And Death has claimed him for its own, just like it claimed its master, wrapped its strings around him, and he will be a living death though he is still alive. He grew up in the sun, now he belongs in a dark place…but the Castle doesn't want to _be_ that place anymore.

Maybe Castlevania likes them because Dracula likes them. They're the only creatures in the Castle Dracula likes; the only two who are human.

The only people he's ever truly liked are at least half human.

Why can't he see that he doesn't hate humans? He just hates bloodthirst.

Godbrand grumbles, he questions, and demands for things that don't belong to him.

Camilla schemes, and denounces them all as less than livestock.

Hector tries to discern the most humane way to put humanity down.

Isaac beats his back bloody, and he tries to be a friend to Dracula after all.

And Dracula sits in his study and doesn't smile anymore.

He makes the fire as bright as he can, and no matter how bright and warm the fire is—no matter how much the Castle tries to refine all the light Alucard filled the world with into this one room, fill the emptiness, resurrect the death—it can never warm him. He needs to be held. The Castle cannot do that. Only the boy or his mother could. And they are too far now.

The walls watch him, and wait for him to talk to them again. And the walls, for the first time, wonder—(and hate themselves for wondering)—if the word isn't _un_dead anymore.

Life was once a part of the undeath, hidden in the corners and crevices…but is death a fact of the unlife now?

There are fights, words and fists, like tumors, like cysts. Unlike the humans who once banged on the Castle's door for vampire blood, Godbrand takes the vampires out to feast on the wine of human veins. Camilla latches her teeth onto Hector and he becomes host to her lies; the sun-and-dog boy taken in by the parasite, and Castlevania would shout at him not to listen, that she doesn't have his best interests at heart, to listen to its master still…if only it could talk.

Godbrand dies with a whip around his neck and flames in his chest. The brutality dies at the hand of the boy who believes in love. And the Castle wouldn't have cared before, but now its complicated. It is glad for a little less noise, but the blood and the death make its stones crawl, and it hates to see it all on the hands of a young man who should have been appalled at such an act. Now its _sad,_ sad for Isaac's sake. Because he's just a young man, like Adrian.

Castlevania misses the boy, and the days of sunlight. Prays that he will return, with dancing gold at his heels.

They mentioned Alucard, once. In a way Castlevania hasn't heard his name spoken before. After all those years of his little feet toddling upon its stones, the sun stinging slowly and quietly; they say his name, like it's a threat. It's sound causes unease when they were always so sickeningly confident. He is not a threat, an enemy, with_in_ the war, but a threat _to_ the war itself. His name could end this war.

And the Room snatches an inkling of air at the sound of his name, tries to cry out, but only croaks a frail war call—a war call against this war. The Room tries to smile through the pain, because if that's true it reflects him; he stands against the cold, the dark, and the death, like the Room always did.

Castlevania prays he will stop this war, this dark, this death, this hungry emptiness, and he will save his father. But it is losing hope each curtained sunrise.

The Room, breath stolen from its lungs, unable to cry out, waits. The kind of anticipation as when this new life was going to arrive in the first place, but there is no apprehension this time. The Room was not alive, then, and this is a living waiting. It waits with feeble attempts to remove the claw around its throat, breathless cries upon its ever-silent lips. Waits for its master to come home—for its master is not home, and it is not a home without its master.

The Room waits, and without breath things start to become rather funny.

At first it's Godbrands remarks, then it's Carmilla's schemes. Then its Hector's pets, and Issac's unyielding loyalty. The death, the darkness, and the cold, cruel injustice of it all. They should make the Room's walls boil with anger, and at first they did, but now it wants to laugh instead.

Hypoxia, they call it. When, lacking oxygen, everything is just a little too funny.

The Room is hypoxic.


End file.
